It is a wonderful thing, when the willows doze,
at the stillness of a winter breeze.
The season settles, and it never goes,
with the passing dues at ease.

The heart so stale... the dreams so pale...
But she would dance a-still!

She would turn the world around,
and she would would bring the walls to sound,
and she... would run the waters still!

The stalemate arises, all so subtle,
and the wind in willows, hurdled in muddle,
would fly no more, until...
She sings to be, she sings to me...
And then she would cry, and I shall cease to be!

A.r. Bazian
*January 1st, 2017